Contaminant
by INMH
Summary: Same universe as Silent Hill Survivors Anonymous. Anne decides to take the high-road in her mission to make Sewell pay in some way or another.
1. Chapter 1

Contaminant  
**Rating:** PG-13/T  
**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort/Drama/Angst/Action  
**Summary:** For hc_bingo, prompt "Bullet Wounds". Same universe as Silent Hill Survivors Anonymous. Anne decides to take the high-road in her mission to make Sewell pay in some way or another.  
**Author's Note:** I actually had a significant portion of this (Like… 8000 words) written before I even started Silent Hill Survivors Anonymous. When I decided it was going to fall into the same universe, I decided to put off finishing it until I was done with Survivors Anonymous so that I knew exactly what I would be working from.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Silent Hill. It belongs to Konami/Vatra.

[-]

Anne was up to something.

Murphy wasn't quite certain how he had arrived at that conclusion, but he had.

"So- anything new going on?"

Anne didn't look at him, stirring some sugar into her coffee with a mild expression of her face. "Nope."

_Liar._ "Really? Nothing?"

Finally, Anne's eyes flicked up to look at him. "Are you trying to get at something, Pendleton?"

"Nope." Murphy mimicked with a perfectly straight face.

To the outside observer, most of their meetings at this particular diner would appear to be between two people who didn't seem to like each other very much. Murphy wasn't a very smiley kind of guy (only when he was around Charlie), and most of Anne's genuine smiles were tiny and brief; more often than not, smiles from her were laced with sarcasm and her usual, biting wit made silent.

But whatever it appeared to be to anyone else, Murphy and Anne got along quite well. Murphy wasn't entirely sure what had cemented their friendship, but he had the feeling that it had something to do with a sense of understanding of one another: Namely, they had both lost loved ones and gone to rather extreme lengths in attempts to avenge those deaths. Not many people could say the same.

Anne gave Murphy a dark look, the one she usually gave him when he started to screw with her. But Murphy's opinion about her being up to something was further reinforced by the fact that she dropped the subject; clearly she didn't want to give him an opening to prod further.

Murphy had only one potential track he felt he could pursue. "Is the investigation still suspended?"

"Yes. Nothing to worry about."

"Great."

Someone- Murphy wasn't quite certain if it was Anne's immediate superiors, the higher-ups at Ryall or the local authorities- had decided that Anne's story about Murphy's supposed demise in Silent Hill wasn't holding much water, and so they had decided to launch an investigation into his death. Fortunately, Anne had apparently stuck to her story very well and didn't seem to think that the investigators suspected her of manipulating his transfer- and if they did, they didn't have any evidence to pin on her.

"Is it this Saturday or next Saturday that we have a meeting?" Anne inquired, and the look on her face clearly stated that she was intentionally changing the subject.

The two of them would be attending a meeting that took place every two weeks or so (weather and traveling conditions permitting) comprised of others who had survived jaunts through Silent Hill; this would be Murphy's sixth meeting, and Anne's third. "Next Saturday."

"Topic?"

Murphy glanced around, and then lowered his voice. "It's either 'History of Silent Hill' or 'Creepy-Ass Monsters, Part II'. I lean towards the monsters one."

"Fantastic."

"Travis wants to, and I quote, 'testify' about some very disturbing puppet-monsters he encountered in a theater."

Anne squinted at him. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Murphy shook his head and held up his hands. "That's what he said." His housemate was a kind, easy-going and generally uncomplicated fellow, but Travis had his moments of strangeness. Murphy took another quick look around their immediate vicinity, and then lowered his voice again. "What kinds did you see?"

Anne toyed with the remains of one of the sugar-packets. "Hm. Those screaming-things."

"Mm-hm."

"The really big, beefed-up thug-things."

"Uh-huh."

"Those creepy-as-hell shadow dolls."

"Yeah."

"And of course-" Anne stopped short, eyes widening slightly. It took him a moment, but Murphy figured out where she had been going with that one: The 'Bogeyman'. For him it was Napier, for Anne it was Murphy himself when she had believed him to be the murderer of her father, Frank. She had nearly killed him over it, and evidently felt that reminding either of them of it was a bad idea.

Murphy rolled with it. "Elle mentioned that Shepherd's Glen had a legend about the- You know what. I guess Silent Hill and Shepherd's Glen have a history of scaring the crap out of their kids."

Anne snorted. "That's not surprising." She paused. "What else?"

"Not much. Apparently they're… Thing was more set on punishing guilty people. Ours was just…" Not. The Bogeyman they had seen was a representation of a person's guilt through someone's eyes: Napier was guilty of murdering Charlie, so he was the Bogeyman for Murphy. Anne believed that Murphy was guilty of murdering her father, so he was the Bogeyman for her. Much more subjective.

Murphy shut his eyes. God, somehow breaking it all down and analyzing it only made him question his sanity even more.

The woman nodded. "Right. And here's to hoping we'll never have to see it again." She remarked with a sardonic smile, raising her mug.

It was then that, out of the blue, it occurred to Murphy to ask a question he had been meaning to ask for some time. "Have you heard anything on Sewell lately?" Anne promptly choked on the coffee she had just swallowed, and it took her a minute to cough the liquid out of her lungs. Murphy did not take it as an encouraging sign. "Wow."

"Don't say that name around me." Anne grunted in a rasp.

"That was a bit of a violent reaction just for a name."

Anne gave him a level look. "Again, Pendleton, I ask what you're trying to imply."

Murphy stared at her unflinchingly. "I'm asking if I should I check the obituaries when I get home."

"Like anyone would write one for him." Anne sniffed, pulling a napkin out of the dispenser and wiping her mouth thoroughly. "No, Pendleton, I didn't kill that slimy piece of shit. Not for lack of wanting, though."

"I'm sure." Murphy would like to think that Anne was thoughtful enough to not just haul off and blow Sewell's brains out, but this was a woman who had once thought that straddling a rock-wall and trying to make her way across a very narrow ledge with one hand holding a gun was a good judgment call, so he couldn't be sure. "So have you heard anything about him?"

"No."

_I think she's lying._ _She's up to something, and she's lying about Sewell. That sounds very, very bad, but hell if I can actually do anything to stop her._ Hell, the chances of him even getting her to talk about it were somewhere in the zero to one-percent range; if he was lucky, he'd hear about it once it was over. Let no one ever say that Anne Cunningham was a woman easily coerced into doing what she didn't want to do.

Murphy gave a shrug and drained the rest of his own mug. "Fine. Let me know if you do."

"You'll be the first." Murphy smirked a little at that, because that was bullshit at its finest. Anne noticed. "What?"

"Nothing."

[-]

Murphy knew she was up to something.

All humility aside, Anne considered herself a damn good liar. The only person who had ever been able to consistently catch her at it was her father, which had forced her into defaulting to the truth whenever she was speaking with him. But with other people, Anne had found that her ability to lie consummately and not get caught could serve her well in a number of situations.

Anne had to grit her teeth and resist the knee-jerk impulse to simply grab her gun and blow George Sewell to kingdom come, and she had to _really_ resist the urge to try subtler but no less destructive means to bring about Sewell's suffering as she had when she believed Murphy to be her father's killer. No, this time she was going to play by the rules: No blowing anyone's head off. No manipulating the system so that she could exact revenge. Especially after the investigation into Murphy's supposed death, she couldn't afford to be risking anything clearly illegal.

Murphy had filled in a number of blanks for Anne regarding Sewell and his activities at the prison, in part through evidence that he had found in Silent Hill (they didn't linger on how that was possible, instead just accepting that that was just how Silent Hill rolled): Frank had been calling Sewell into question regarding corruption, poking his nose into things that Sewell didn't want him involved in.

"It mentioned a few things," Murphy had said one day as they walked down the street. It had been raining, and Anne remembered him being unusually tense. "That I remember, there was violence-" Anne had snorted at that, and Murphy nodded flatly. "Yeah, I know, big shock. There was violence, coercion, blackmail- not really sure what the difference is between the two."

"Blackmail is 'do it or I tell your wife about your mistress'. Coercion is 'I'm your boss and I say so'." Anne had clarified, scowling. She had yet to decide which was worse, or if both were equally despicable.

"Right. And then there was some mention of drug-trafficking, but the letter was pretty vague overall. I guess Frank was concerned that if he got too specific and the letter fell into the wrong hands that Sewell might try to cover his tracks."

Or, a very likely option was that maybe Frank had been concerned about the loyalties of Handley and Milton. After all, Sewell had allegedly been up to things for a while and apparently had managed to sneak a lot of supposedly brazen activity right past a captain and warden; Anne had to figure that that made them incompetent or complicit, or possibly both.

Anne had taken this information and chewed on it for a while.

The difference between what Murphy had been to her some time ago and what Sewell currently was to her was significant: Murphy had been a prisoner, someone who could, in theory, not do too much damage to anyone else around him. Killing or otherwise harming him once he got to Wayside (Anne had never really dared to think beyond actually getting him transferred) would not have done much to help the world. It was like shooting a fish in a barrel.

But Sewell was a different beast. Sewell was a damn _monster,_ and Anne knew that without a shadow of a doubt this time. Not only had he beaten her father senseless and more or less murdered him, but he was involved in plenty of other- as Murphy had quoted the memorandum, "reprehensible activities" that had the potential to do a great deal of harm to many people.

And so, Anne started to formulate a plan.

Revenge in the form of a bullet or a club to the back of Sewell's head- while immensely satisfying as mental images- was a bad idea. Murphy had taken the path of revenge once too, and that ended with him being falsely accused of bludgeoning Frank half to death and getting an extended sentence of some twenty or so years for it (Innocent or not, Anne still questioned that number; she felt it should have been longer than that). No, she couldn't do what she tried to do to Murphy.

But Sewell did need to be stopped. And what better revenge would there be than Frank Coleridge's daughter messing up his nice little system of corruption at Ryall? It would be a kick to the balls that he would be feeling for the rest of his life- which would, hopefully, play out behind the bars of the same cells he was currently guarding.

Anne gave it some thought, tentatively tracked out a number of possible ways things could go (wrong), then thought about it some more.

And then she transferred to Ryall State Prison.

She had considered this particular course of action once or twice in her quest to take vengeance on Murphy, but in the end had abandoned it for more or less the same reason: The staff at the prison would know that she was Frank Coleridge's daughter, and they might be a bit suspicious if she had decided to transfer to the prison that was currently incarcerating the man convicted of killing her father. They would never have okayed her transfer to Ryall, and so she went about the more subtle and complicated (and degrading) way of getting Murphy transferred to Wayside.

As far as the world was concerned, Murphy Pendleton had beaten and indirectly killed Frank Coleridge. Only Anne, Murphy, George Sewell and Frank knew otherwise, and no one had any reason to suspect that Anne might have ulterior motives for transferring prisons now that Murphy was perceived to be dead. The transfer was processed, she said her fond farewells at Wayside, and then headed over to Ryall County for her new position.

The staff was quite receptive: Frank had been a beloved staff-member, and most everyone had been horrified at his beating and eventual passing. Anne could even remember seeing some of them at the funeral. And even though she had been, at the time of the transfer, under investigation for what happened to Murphy, there seemed to be a quiet sort of approval for her supposed deed. Murphy had killed Frank, and so the general air she got from the others at Ryall was that if she hadn't done it, fine- but if she had, they weren't going to get too upset over it.

Anne wasn't entirely certain how she felt about that.

And Sewell didn't suspect a damn thing. He was sweet as cyanide-laced sugar with Anne, calling her 'sweetheart' and occasionally sharing a fond memory with Frank. He must have assumed that Frank was too noble to share 'oh God I hate that guy' stories about his coworkers, because he tried to pretend like he and Frank had been old buddies and was devastated at his loss.

Strangely, Anne was all right. She had been concerned that Sewell's feigned ignorance about her father's death might make her try to choke him out- or at least punch him- but she found that she was able to roll with Sewell's lies surprisingly well, playing the part of someone who had no idea what a monster he actually was. But she knew to look for it there, and she could see it behind his eyes as clear as day.

_Murphy, why the hell did you ever cut a deal with this guy? You've got a better judge of character than that._

Oh, right: Blinded with grief and rage at his small son's very bad death. Anne didn't have children, but she could imagine that that was the kind of rage that didn't leave you inclined to clear-thinking.

Anne had figured that once she had settled into Ryall and gotten to know Sewell, things could have gone one of two ways: Sewell approached her and tried to either force her or entice her into helping him, or he steered clear of her because she was Frank's daughter and assumed that she would have the same moral code as he. Option A would make either make taking him down very easy or incredibly difficult, while Option B just meant more detective-work on her part.

After two months, it seemed that Sewell was going with B; and in a way, Anne was grimly flattered that he believed her to be as honest and decent as Frank had been.

As it happened, Sewell hadn't been the only one Anne was keeping an eye on: She'd been watching the other guards too, looking to see if maybe any of them had an unusually close relationship with Sewell. One in particular had stood out: A younger officer, new to the prison just as she was, named Peter Benson.

Anne suspected that the only reason Benson caught her attention was because of his age and resulting demeanor. He was a greenhorn to being an officer in general, uncertain of his surroundings, unaccustomed to his authority, and generally kind of nervous. But she had noticed that that nervousness tended to get much more obvious whenever the subject of Sewell came up.

"Benson- Have you seen Sewell?" Handley had come into their office one day. "I need to chat with him about Carl Sails; he was kicking off in the showers again." Anne had noticed right off the bat a pronounced twitch when she said Sewell's name. It had been followed by Benson fumbling with his belt in a fairly pathetic attempt to busy his hands and appear less alarmed. Handley wasn't paying attention to Benson's hands; she was at her desk, and had had a good view of him.

After that, Anne kept a close watch on Benson. Not only did he have a habit of getting flustered whenever someone mentioned Sewell, like the man's very name gave him cause to panic, but Anne had caught Benson and Sewell in a few isolated places talking in hushed tones.

Oh yes, Benson was in on it. Willingly or not, Anne couldn't say: The poor kid did seem to be the kind that folded under the right amount of pressure, and Sewell was nothing if not a massive steamroller.

Anne found that there were a few places Sewell generally liked to corner Benson in for a talk: The corner of the cafeteria during lunch hour, the hall outside of B-Block, the small nook near the showers- basically the shadiest places in the prison. Anne almost hoped that everyone knew what they were up to and was simply ignoring it, because if _no one_ had noticed their little talks and figured what they might mean, then she had the least observant coworkers in the damn country.

Here came time for some decision-making: Keeping an eye on her coworkers was innocuous, could be construed as being observant rather than nosy or suspicious. There wasn't much trouble she could get into just from paying attention to things. But actively seeking to find out what Sewell and Benson were talking about would require eavesdropping, potentially on conversations of a 'you-heard-me-now-I-have-to-kill-you' nature. It was dangerous, could end with losing her job- or, given Sewell's record, her head.

After careful thought, though, Anne found that she didn't have as much choice as originally believed: Sewell was up to something corrupt. _Knowing_ that it was happening and not doing anything about it was almost as bad as actively participating in it; especially if something bad were to happen to someone. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if something happened and she could have done something to prevent it.

And so Anne went to the local electronics store and proceeded to purchase two tape-recorders- one for the nook and one for the hall near B-Block (there was no place in the cafeteria where she could hide one). The nook near the showers had a fire extinguisher, and Anne managed to arrange it in such a manner so that it stood securely behind the extinguisher, out of sight; the second recorder she wedged into a vent near Sewell and Benson's spot. She was able to do this, thankfully, because the cameras did not happen to cover these places, which Anne was certain Sewell had considered when scouting them out.

And then came the waiting-game.


	2. Chapter 2

Anne had done her work in the morning after patrolling the line of cells in A and B-Block. She was on until four o' clock in the afternoon, and would then go home for the night. She intended to pick up the tapes as easily as she had dropped them off the next morning.

She hadn't expected the level of anxiety she would experience during the wait, the knowledge that Sewell or Benson could discover the recording devices and possibly trace them back to her (Anne had yet to glean just what kind of contacts Sewell had) a constant threat in her mind. She found herself drifting off at points during the day.

"Ma'am. Ma'am. _Ma'am_. Officer!" Anne jerked suddenly. She had been staring at the ground, mind blank but thick with tension, and hadn't noticed a prisoner waving at her.

"Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you?"

"Shoot."

The inmate (Carver, Canton, Colby, something to that effect) started to tell Anne about some fight that had happened with another inmate, and she had to force herself to focus as she listened. "And where did this happen?"

"In the weight-room, by the rack where they keep those big, heavy ball-things." He began to rub at a faded scar on his neck. "Didn't do nothing to him, ma'am. He just jumped me. I've only ever had one conversation with the guy anyway."

"All right, I'll take a look into it. I'll probably come back later and ask you to fill out an incident report, but I'll check and see if there might be any obvious evidence." She glanced at the cut on the palm of his hand, which had since been wrapped in a bandage. Anne found that prison, in a twisted way, was very similar to elementary school: If you got pushed on the playground you didn't just snitch to the teacher right away or you would catch hell, which was why this guy had waited a few hours to report it.

Of course, 'hell' in school was significantly different from prison 'hell'.

Truthfully, Anne was thankful for something to focus on, something she could get involved in and hopefully lose time to, take the edge off of her nerves. She traversed down to the currently unoccupied weight-room and looked around.

_All right, the rack where they keep the big, heavy balls… There._ Anne zeroed in on the rack and strode over, kneeling down next to the wall that the aggressor had supposedly shoved that inmate into. She scanned the floor, the rack, and then the faded, pine-green wall until she found was she was looking for: A dark, dried stain that was probably blood, given that the shape of the smear seemed to be consistent with someone with blood on their palm trying to catch themselves on the wall.

_Right, so I'll have to go get Carter, Carlton- whatever the hell his name is- and bring him down to the office so that he can fill out the report. Then I'll have to get Gerber and bring **him** down so he can defend himself, get **his** statement, and then I guess it becomes-_

A loud clanging noise in the otherwise silent room made Anne jump, heart leaping into her throat- and she was pretty certain that it stopped beating when she heard a painfully familiar voice.

"Hey there, sugar."

Anne whipped around to see Sewell standing over her, twirling his nightstick in one hand and smiling that bullshit-smile he had for just about every occasion. "Officer Sewell." She managed, trying not to appear as panicked as she felt.

Sewell clucked his tongue. "Oh, come on now: Your dad and I were colleagues, coworkers, pals. You can call me George."

He gave the metal rack holding the weight-balls another tap with the nightstick. Anne eyed it for a moment, and remembered with no small amount of disgust and hatred that Sewell had possibly used that very same stick (or at least, one like it) to bash her father in the nose, knocking Frank down so that he could assault him more easily.

Anne was not a woman accustomed to hiding what she really felt, regardless of how good a liar she was; but Ryall had been an exercise in just that. She forced herself not only _not_ to scowl, but to manage a pleasant tone and say, "Well, I guess it's only fair that you call me Anne, then."

Sewell chuckled, and it took a little more resistance to avoid decking him. "Well, _Anne_, what are you up to?" He smacked the nightstick up and down into the palm of his hand. Maybe Anne was just being oversensitive, paranoid because of what she knew, but the action struck her as threatening. Then again, Sewell was probably accustomed to behaving in a threatening manner and didn't think twice about it, even when he wasn't trying to be.

She stood up, straightening her jacket and pushing back a strand of hair. "Apparently a little spat broke out here earlier. An inmate was assaulted." Anne gestured to the blood-smear on the wall. Sewell glanced at it, but didn't seem particularly perturbed.

"Between who?"

"Somebody named Gerber and an inmate whose name begins with C. Can't remember it for the life of me."

"Casey." Sewell rolled his eyes. "It's probably Casey. Asshole doesn't know when to shut his mouth. Also doesn't know when to mind his own damn business, so believe me when I say this isn't the first or last time he'll get himself knocked around."

"If someone was knocking him around, I would think telling an officer would be reasonable."

Sewell's smile faded. "Running to the guards like a school-room sissy? If he doesn't know better than to keep to himself, I'd say he's asking for whatever he gets."

Anne kept her expression neutral, but her heart was pounding. She tried to remind herself that there were cameras in the weight-room, that Sewell wouldn't dare do or say anything threatening or incriminating to her here. Still, being alone with him was discomfiting; especially on the subject of people not minding their own business.

"Well," She said, taking a deep breath and moving towards the door, "Regardless, he reported it to me, and now I have to have him and Gerber fill out incident reports."

The nightstick swung out and blocked her path smoothly and swiftly, and Anne tensed. Her hands fell by her sides, but one twitched towards her own nightstick attached to her belt, preparing to grab it and smash him across the face as hard as she had to (she could get some measure of guilt-free self-satisfaction out of it if it was self-defense, right?).

"Can I ask you a question, Anne?"

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

"I don't know, George. Can you?"

Sewell rolled his eyes overdramatically. "Oh _God_, you're one of those people." He shook his head, smirking a smirk that faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. "But if I _may_…" He stepped forward, right into Anne's personal space, and this time her fingers did close around her nightstick, edging it out of the loop as unnoticeably as she could. "I have to know, sugar: Did you do it?"

Anne didn't look him in the eye. He was too close. "Do what?"

"Kill Pendleton."

Anne was expecting that question about as much as she would have expected to get a water balloon dropped onto her head. She did look at Sewell then, and her poker-face slipped off in favor of an expression of confusion. "Did I kill Pendleton?"

Sewell scoffed and rolled his eyes again. "Sugar, you can't _not_ know what I'm talking about. I know you were being investigated up until last month about it; the powers that be didn't like your account of what happened, from what I heard."  
As Sewell should have had virtually no involvement in that case, Anne was stricken with yet another charge of paranoia: If he knew why the authorities hadn't been content with her story about Murphy's supposed death, then what else did he know that he shouldn't? If there had been any doubts about how closely she needed to watch her step, they were gone now.

"I- No, I didn't." Anne took a step back, and was relieved enough to release her hold on her nightstick when Sewell didn't pursue her.

"Come on, sweetheart- I'm no rat, I won't tell if you did or didn't." Sewell gave her a fox-like smirk. "It'll be our little secret. I hated the bastard almost as much as I bet you did."

Anne's eyes narrowed. "I didn't. Kill. Pendleton. He fell off a ledge in Silent Hill when he was trying to escape. If you're having trouble believing that, then go visit the Devil's Pit for yourself and see how easy it would be for a person to fall to their death."

_No, really, give it a try. It would save me a lot of trouble._

She could tell from the look on his face that he didn't believe her, and that was perfectly fine: Hell, it would probably serve Anne better if Sewell believed that she had eradicated a potential problem of his, as Murphy was the only one who could ever legitimately claim witness to what had really happened to Frank.

Sewell watched her for a long moment, and then shrugged. "All right then." Finally, he stepped aside to let her pass, and once she had, Anne let out a sigh of relief. Just as she got to the door, though, "Oh, and Anne?" Anne turned back, and Sewell's smile had returned. "If you ever need any help dealing with Casey again- or anything else, for that matter- you let me know."

Anne did not like the way he said that.

"I think I can handle things myself."

Sewell's smile was sickening.

"If you insist, sugar. You let me know."

[-]

Anne had a sleepless night.

_If someone finds those recorders, I'm a dead woman. _

But then, she could quickly become a dead woman at any point during this venture, so sooner or later didn't seem to matter much.

She laid awake, watching the neon-green numbers on the digital clock change, counting the seconds and hoping that it might help her sleep. It didn't- all it did was remind her how much time there was between now and having to get up and go to work. The wait was agonizing, but the concept of actually having to go into work and retrieve the tape recorders without anyone noticing was just as bad, if not worse.

Planning things out at midnight when she was trying to sleep was not, perhaps, the sagest idea, but it did calm her slightly.

_I can leave something in my car: My gun, cuffs, radio, paperwork, something. I can get the recorders, stow them in my jacket, say that I left something in my car and put them under the seat when I go to get it. That way I won't have to keep them on or in my desk where someone might see them. _

_Damn, but what if they tell me not to bother? What if they tell me they need me somewhere else and I don't have the chance? I could keep them in my jacket, but I only have one pocket I could put them in, and I can't fit them both- that leaves the desk, where someone might see them or take them, especially Sewell or Benson-_

Anne dug her fingers into her pillow and grit her teeth.

_Stop it. **Stop.** There's caution, and then there's paranoia. Unless there's a riot or some similar crisis, no one's going to have a problem with you running out to your car. And if there **is** a crisis, stow the recorders for a while and **then** go to your car at the first available opportunity. It's not a big deal._

There was one other problem she would possibly have to contend with: Anne had only managed to procure tapes that would record for twelve hours, which meant from seven AM to seven PM. What if they didn't catch anything? What if Sewell and Benson only had one of their cafeteria-chats that day? Anne had not given a great deal of consideration to what she would do if the tapes didn't record anything worthwhile. This day had been bad enough: Would she be able to handle another like it?

Anne managed to drift off to sleep around two and achieved a grand total of three and a half hours of sleep, having to get up at five-thirty to get ready to leave around six. Her eyes were a bit red, but other than that, she felt it wasn't too obvious that she hadn't slept. The drive to Ryall was one long, blank blur. The only thing that really penetrated was the pain in Anne's neck, shoulders and forehead; not unusual, as that was usually what happened when she was tense.

When she took a left onto the road that led down to the prison, Anne let out a slow breath.

_Relax. You have a plan. You know the plan. If you could hide the recorders, you can get them back too. _

In theory. She had already gone over the thousands of ways things could go very wrong very fast.

Anne left her nightstick in the car. Guns weren't allowed in the prison at large, because one fast inmate who could wrestle it out of your belt could do more damage than anyone was willing to risk. Of all the things she could leave behind, the nightstick was one that she would have the best chance of being able to go back for; it was a matter of safety, one of her few methods of protection from the inmates.

The walk inside was long and so damn slow, and Anne had to try to appear as natural as possible as she passed her coworkers. Patrolling had its heart-stopping moments: Another guard stopped to talk to her and held her up, another two officers were talking within close enough proximity to B-Block that she felt she should wait before making a move- and more important than those she did see and here, Anne was concerned with who she didn't see: Sewell. He had odd hours, and she had to stop and make sure that if he _was_ at the prison that he wasn't anywhere near B-Block or the showers.

But in the end, she did it: Anne ripped the recorder out from behind the fire extinguisher and wedged open the vent so she could retrieve the second. They were both still there, apparently undisturbed. Anne dislodged them both from their hiding places, put them under her jacket, and quickly excused herself to get her baton- that went off without a hitch, and soon she was walking back to the office with the knowledge that the tape-recorders were safe under her car seat.

Anne felt like she had just dodged a dozen bullets. It had gone off without a hitch in spite of the many things that _could_ have gone wrong, and she couldn't have been more relieved. She was _trembling_ with it, in fact, and it didn't go unnoticed.

"Need me to crank up the heat, Cunningham?" Officer Rose asked, eyebrow cocked.

"Hm?"

"You're shaking."

"Oh- Just a few too many coffees this morning." Anne assured before kicking herself. The last thing she needed to do was pull a Benson and make it obvious that she was up to something; if and when the shit started to hit the fan, it would be best if Sewell had no cause to look her way.

The rest of the day was filled with anticipation, but this time of a different sort. Anne was eager to get home and listen to the tapes, to see if maybe she had found anything incriminating. If she was truly lucky, Sewell would admit outright to any misdeeds he had committed and all she had to do was report it to Glen Milton, the warden. That was the best-case scenario, though: She was under the impression that Sewell was crafty and cautious enough that he wouldn't give away the full details of whatever he was doing in a place where someone could potentially overhear him.

Anne's eyes found the clock countless times over the course of the day, and when it was time to leave she barely resisted the urge to bolt out to her car. With a forty-five minute drive ahead of her, Anne pulled out the first recorder (she couldn't tell where it had been hidden) and let it play while she was driving, occasionally fast-forwarding whenever she was at a stoplight or stop sign.

Once or twice, Anne hastily stopped the tape when she distinctly heard voices speeding by; both times, though, it was the banal chit-chat of a few officers, as well as one with an inmate. It occurred to her then that Sewell probably wasn't the only one who utilized quiet spots for a private conversation.

The first tape was done almost ten minutes before she got home, but while punching buttons was one thing, Anne figured that pulling the other recorder out from under the seat with one hand and driving with the other would be just a bit of a stretch. Once she had pulled into her driveway and stopped the car, Anne snatched the second recorder and went inside, pressing the 'play' button as she was heading up the steps.

Anne spent the next half hour carefully listening through the second tape. When she was done, she went back to the first tape and went through it again. By the time she was done, Anne found herself staring flatly at the recorders, placed next to each other on the kitchen table.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Anne's heart fell. "Damn it." She whispered. Both tapes were useless: Nothing of worth on either of them. Knowing her luck, Sewell and Benson had had a meeting in precisely those spots today, without the recorders there to catch anything. And quite honestly, Anne wasn't certain she wanted to do it again: She had been a virtual nervous-wreck for twenty-four hours, after all.

She took a deep breath. _I committed to this. I need to follow through on it. I'll rewind the tapes and set them up again. Maybe I'll get lucky this time._

Or maybe she wouldn't. With every day that passed that she had those recorders there, Anne ran the risk of Sewell or Benson discovering them.

But what choice did she have?


	3. Chapter 3

Anne had held out a dim hope that this might be easier the second time around: Sewell hadn't found the recorders on the first day (But then, he hadn't been anywhere near them that day), so maybe he wouldn't find them today. It was Thursday, and his hours overlapped with Anne's: He got in at ten and left around eight, and best of all, Benson's hours were roughly the same. The odds of them having one of their talks seemed high, at least to her.

This time, she chose to alter her timing: Anne found an excuse to go down to B-Block around eight-thirty, having left the vent loosened so that she could drop the recorder in as quickly as possible before moving on. She took a detour past the showers, ducked into the nook and set up the second recorder there; the sound of approaching footsteps found her dropping to one knee and pretending to adjust her pant-leg.

Benson didn't come in until nine. Anne had delayed in placing the recorders so that, on the off-chance that Sewell didn't corner him until sometime after six, the tape wouldn't run out before the conversation took place. She went about her normal duties with a better sense of calm than she had the day before, only slightly anxious that the recorders might be discovered.

Sewell came into the office around noon, twirling that damn nightstick in one hand and holding a piece of paper with the other. "Incident report," He said, seeming to direct it at Handley, who had just left his own private office. "Sails went and broke his hand." He handed the paper to Handley, who frowned as he scanned it.

"How in the hell did that happen?"

"Dumbass left his hand in the way of the door when I was trying to shut it."

Anne didn't believe that for a damn second. And judging from the expression she saw on Handley's face when she snuck a glance at him, he didn't believe it either. He had been the one that Frank had reported to initially, investigating the claims and unfortunately coming up with nothing solid to charge Sewell with. Anne got the impression that he was one of the good ones- Frank must have thought so, or he would have reported right to Milton- but wasn't entirely convinced just yet. Her dad had been a good judge of character, but he was wrong on occasion. Handley could have easily faked that investigation or ignored what he found.

"Medical filled it out?"

"Yup." Sewell said with a nod. Then, to Anne's disgust, he turned to her with a bright, toothy smile reminiscent of a crocodile. "Hey there, sugar! How are you today?"

Anne managed a tight-lipped smile (fortunately, she wasn't known for smiles). "Just fine Sew- George."

"You doing anything for lunch?"

"Working. I have paperwork."

Sewell frowned. "Aw, come on: You have to eat. It's on me." And then the bastard _winked_ at her.

_Oh Jesus, **please** don't tell me he's hitting on me. I may seriously start dry-heaving._

She fought to keep her smile from faltering. "No, thanks, I really have to get this stuff done." She gestured weakly to the papers on her desk.

"Life's short, Anne." The alarms starting going off in her head again as Sewell proceeded to take a seat on the edge of her desk, setting the tip of the nightstick right on top of the thin stack of papers. His proximity had that unintentionally threatening feel to it, and Anne actually, seriously began to feel a bit nauseous. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, after all; or an axe-wielding psychopath." He chuckled.

Anne sucked in a deep breath. "Well, I'm not Jack, and I procrastinated with my work. So I need to get it done."

"_You?_ Procrastinate?" Handley exclaimed in disbelief. Anne winced inwardly; one thing she wasn't known for was skimping on her work, so perhaps 'procrastinate' was not the best choice of words.

And then Sewell did something that made the alarms turn into blaring, shrieking sirens: He reached forward and pulled on the badge attached to her jacket, twisting it and watching the way the light reflected off it. If he were anyone else, if she didn't have to avoid getting on his bad side at all costs she would have broken his damn wrist for touching her without her permission, however innocuous it was. But then, nothing about Sewell was innocuous.

_Be goddamn thankful my father's dead, Sewell. Because if he knew you had your hands on me, he would tear you in half. God knows I'm getting close to it, because if you don't back away from me within the next minute I'm going to-_

"Sewell," Handley's voice was stern, but carried the air of someone who had said the same thing about fifty times before. "Please don't invade Cunningham's personal space. I get enough sexual harassment threats about Rose; I don't need any from you."

Sewell laughed, removed his hand from Anne's badge and stood up. She let out a breath, and realized that the hand she had placed on her leg had fingers digging into her knee painfully. "If you're certain, sugar. Let me know if you change your mind."

He winked again, but turned away fast enough that Anne was reasonably certain that he didn't see her mouth twist into a grimace.

_Go meet with Benson, please. **Please**. Have a nice, long conversation so that I can laugh my ass off at you when you get arrested._

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful. Anne saw Sewell as few more times, but didn't converse with him or Benson. The anxiety she felt that day and into the night wasn't so much fear this time as it was anticipation, an eagerness to see if Sewell had spoken to Benson and a sincere hope that they hadn't spoken in the cafeteria or some different spot she wasn't aware of yet. But if the second day was easier, then a third day, a fourth day, a fifth day- those would be easier. Surely it wouldn't take longer than five days to get _something_ out of them.

When she got to work the next morning, Anne gathered the recorders without issue once more; there wasn't even a hint that anyone was nearby when she pulled them from their hiding places, and things could not have gone smoother. And if over the course of that day she was just a touch more fidgety than usual, if she played with her pen or had to constantly occupy her hands in some way, no one seemed to notice.

By the time Anne got to her car, the increasing concern over whether or not she might end up doing this all over again tomorrow had driven her anxiety up to a point where she couldn't wait any longer: Again she found herself listening to the tapes on her drive home, gripping the steering-wheel a little too hard and, on one occasion, almost running a stop-light.

Without fast-forwarding as much this time, the first tape was done by the time she got home. Anne did the same as she had before, sliding the second tape into the recorder even as she climbed the steps to her house. She stepped inside, kicked the door shut behind her and managed to shrug her jacket off without ever having to release the recorder; from there it was straight to the table, where Anne sat down and just listened.

For just over an hour, Anne fast-forwarded through the tapes while listening closely for any sounds of sped-up human voices. There weren't as many instances this time as there had been the previous day, no other officers stopping for a quiet chat or just happening to be talking as they walked by those spots. It was getting towards the end of the tape, and Anne hadn't heard much of substance aside from a prisoner having a personal chat with a guard, something that made Anne slightly uncomfortable to listen to; she neither expected nor wanted to be eavesdropping on someone other than Sewell or Benson, and she felt a little guilty about-

Wait a minute- There, that was a voice she recognized. She paused, rewound and played.

"_-king kidding me, jackass?" _

Anne froze.

"_I'm sorry, I'm **sorry**-"_

"_Don't tell me that you're sorry,"_ Sewell's voice was testy, edging on a growl. _"Tell me how you're going to fix it."_

"_I'll re-box the-"_ For a minute or so, Anne couldn't clearly hear anything- when she could once more, Sewell was speaking.

"_-on this. Jesus Christ, you had better. You have the address?"_

"_Uh- Silent Hill, Port District, right?"_

"_357 Cooper Avenue."_ Sewell said it like he was giving instructions to a four year-old. _"It's a big yard full of shipping containers. We're meeting them there at nine- don't be late."_

"_O-Okay." _

"_Good. Now just keep your head down and your mouth shut, and-"_ Sewell's voice drifted away, and Anne assumed that he had led Benson out of the hall. For a moment she sat dazed, listening to the dim sounds of the prison echoing from the tape.

Hearing it gave the situation a whole new level of seriousness. It wasn't just 'I think Sewell's up to something because he's acting suspicious and my dad definitely thought so'; Anne had first-hand proof now. Well- not proof that Sewell and Benson were doing something wrong, but at least it proved that they were up to something.

Something that was happening at nine o' clock- tonight, most likely. Anne looked at the clock: 7:30 PM.

She had a time and a likely date; she could easily go and see what the two of them were up to, who they were meeting and why. Anne couldn't just report any of this, given that it wasn't concrete evidence that law-breaking was going on. But she could follow Sewell, listen to whatever was going on with him and the person he and Benson were meeting, and if the things she heard sufficed, _then_ she could report him.

_But it's Silent Hill._

The thought gripped her with an unexpected dread. Anne hadn't anticipated that Silent Hill would factor in at all, and she had no idea that this little venture might actually require her to return to the town. She had been to Silent Hill prior to that shared-nightmare with Murphy, but for obvious reasons her opinion and view of the place had been tainted fairly irreparably.

_I committed to this. **I committed to this**. _

It wasn't just about her: It was about putting Sewell away before he could screw someone else's life up like he had hers, Frank's and Murphy's. If she had a chance to take the son of a bitch down, then she had to do it.

If she didn't, who would?

[-]

Anne brought along her Glock, along with as many rounds of ammunition as her belt could hold. On the off-chance that she ended up in the not-so-tourist-y area of Silent Hill again, she wasn't going to be defenseless. And if all else failed, she had the pocket-knife she'd had since college in her pocket as well.

By the time she had prepared herself, left and then arrived at the resort-town, it was eight-thirty. She parked on a street in Pleasant River, hoping and praying that Sewell would not somehow see it and recognize it as belonging to her (_Did_ he know what car she drove? Probably). It was painfully dark out with the days becoming shorter, and the knowledge that she wouldn't be able to see everything as clearly as she would like only provided a new source of anxiety.

_God, this is like something out of a procedural crime show._ Anne thought as she came upon the yard. It was just the kind of place you might see at the opening of an episode, right before some poor person got blown to kingdom come.

Hopefully, that person would not be her.

It was a ways past the dock that she had caught Murphy trying to escape Silent Hill from, and all the while Anne kept her head down, hands in the pockets of her old gray jacket, and tried to stick to the shadows so that if anyone happened to drive by they wouldn't see her face. It had rained earlier and had just stopped when she had left her house, leaving the streets wet and the air cool.

At first glance, Anne didn't see anyone- of course, if this was some sort of illicit meeting, they wouldn't really be broadcasting their presence, would they? There was a chain-linked fence and gate that allowed access to the yard, and to her surprise it was left wide-open; maybe they didn't have anything worth stealing here, but what about vandalism?

But then, it _was_ Silent Hill. Anne had never lived there, but working at Wayside had put her in direct contact with people who did- people who knew that the lovely and charming little resort town had an ugly, ugly side to it, a side that she was becoming better acquainted with in those meetings with others who had seen the darkest side of Silent Hill. Crime, corruption, disappearances and murder were not unusual here, though you'd never find that on any of the brochures.

The shipping containers that Sewell had mentioned were set fairly neatly in the yard, creating horizontal and vertical paths between them. There were enough of them that Anne actually felt some relief, knowing that she might be able to creep around and eavesdrop without being noticed. Until then, though, she was at something of a loss as to where she should go in the meantime: The more she moved, the more risk there was to drawing attention to herself (especially since the yard was covered in gravel). But not looking around thoroughly could mean missing the meeting altogether, and like _hell_ she was letting that happen.

_All right, think: The yard doesn't seem to have any security or night-workers, so they probably won't be worrying about getting caught. If they're not worried about getting caught, they'll be out in the open. Sewell said that they were meeting '**them**', meaning more than one, so that makes it even more likely that they're not going to try and cram themselves between the containers to talk._

As Anne crept along the path, she wondered why Sewell had chosen Benson as a partner in crime. The younger man was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a natural criminal, nor did he seem to be a bad person overall. In fact, he looked like the kind of person that might be inclined to crack under the pressure of what he was doing, and Sewell seemed to be adding to it.

God. She sincerely hoped that Benson didn't do anything to piss Sewell off. If he hadn't had a problem arranging the death of a popular guard who had already cast suspicions on him, he probably wouldn't have an issue killing someone as meek and unassuming as Benson.

Anne stopped. At first, she thought it was just a car driving on the street nearby, but then the sound of tires slowing and crunching on the gravel alarmed her. Neither of the paths on either side of her were wide enough to allow a car through, so she was probably safe where she was for the moment. The sound of the car came closer, closer, right nearby, and then passed on. Anne didn't move until she heard it come to a complete stop.

Minding the sound of the gravel, Anne edged along the path to her right until she could see the end of the yard, where there was a large space free of any containers. A dark-blue sedan had pulled into that space, and though it was dark, Anne could see four people emerge from the car and start walking in her direction. There were three containers between her and them, and Anne ducked into the shadows of the closest one to avoid being seen.

"Evening, gentlemen!"

Anne jerked sharply at that voice: It was, unmistakably, Sewell's. And it was not coming from that group of four, which meant that he (and by association, Benson) had been just a few yards away and she hadn't even realized. If it hadn't been for those newcomers, Anne might have walked right out in front of them and been spotted. The idea made her heart pound.

"Mr. Sewell, Mr.-?" The voice was smooth and deep.

"Benson. Don't mind him, he's new."  
"And trustworthy?"

Sewell snorted. "You think I'd bring anyone but?"

"I would hope not. You're not stupid." There were some chuckles at that, but they didn't seem to be particularly mirthful. "This is Andrew, Steven and Lee, they-" Anne clenched her teeth in frustration when the wind picked up for a moment and drowned out the words. "-see if maybe they'll enjoy doing business with us in the future. I take it you have the product?"

"Naturally." There was a clicking sound. "Sorry about the packaging, folks, we had a little _accident_." Sewell's tone became menacing, and though she couldn't see or hear him, Anne knew that Benson was probably shrinking away in fear.

"Frankly, I don't give a damn what it looks like so long as it's quality." A new voice spoke up, higher than the first man's.

"Oh, it's quality. Don't you worry about that."

"George is very good; I've been working with him for years now. He's very loyal." The first man was saying, and Anne wondered if maybe one (or all) of the men had maybe started to look uneasy. Was Sewell wearing his uniform, perhaps? She wouldn't put it past him, especially since it might count as yet another intimidation tactic.

"Don't worry, fellas. I don't bite."

"Yeah, that's good," A third new voice spoke up. "For you, anyway. After all, wouldn't want to go the way of old Officer G, would we?"

Anne had no idea who 'Officer G' was or what had apparently happened to him, but the reference seemed to bother Sewell. "No, no we wouldn't." He said, and his voice was hard, cold. And did she detect a note of nervousness, maybe? Anne wasn't certain that she had ever heard Sewell nervous before- it was something to savor, that the bastard was capable of getting scared.

This was all well and good, because Anne could think of very few things that they could be talking about that were not _drugs_, but that one man who was doing most of the talking seemed to be pretty savvy at this: He didn't use the other men's last names, and hell, she had no way of knowing if those were their real first names either. If she went to someone later, all she could realistically say was 'I followed Sewell to a shipyard where he had a really-suspicious-probably-drug-related talk with some really-suspicious-men-who-avoided-using-their-last-names, no I didn't see anything, no they didn't use the words 'drugs', arrest them anyway please?'

This was just not going as well as she had hoped.

She had kept herself completely behind the shipping container for the length of the conversation, the last thing she had seen being the shadows of the four men. It was dark, very dark, the only light coming from the moon above- and even then, it was occasionally blocked by remaining rainclouds. Maybe, just maybe, it was safe to try and catch a look: Height, weight, any other potentially distinguishing physical features might be useful in identifying these people later.

Slowly, Anne pushed aside her jacket so that her gun was easier to access in the event that she needed it, and then leaned around the side of the container, eyes trying to focus in the darkness. She could see three distinct figures: One of them, she was certain, was Sewell. His posture was unmistakable, but at the same time, she could actually _see_ that bit of nervousness in it. Whoever that Officer G was, she had a feeling he wasn't around anymore.

The other two shadows were strangers. Benson had to be on Sewell's left, out of view but closer to the devil he knew rather than the devils he didn't, and the third and fourth members of the group weren't visible either. Anne squinted at the two she could see, and the moon was just out enough that she could make out a few features: Both were men; one was about Sewell's height, the other taller; the shorter man had dark hair, the taller had lighter (blonde, from the look of it). Nothing else- they were too far away, and it was too dark. Still, not bad.

"So, exactly how long have you done business with Thomas?" That was another new voice, and it had an accent. Damn it, Anne knew what it was, but it wasn't- Philadelphia! It was a Philadelphian accent, and it was coming from the taller man. It was distinctive enough that Anne might recognize it later on, maybe she could check the Lakeview Hotel and see if maybe there were any records on the guests and where they had come from-

Suddenly, everything happened at once.

Anne saw the shorter man start to turn in her direction, and she quickly withdrew from his line of vision. Unfortunately, she did so with a bit too much energy, and she lost her footing. Anne stumbled and banged into the container- which might not have been so bad otherwise, but recall that she had moved her jacket aside so that her gun was exposed. The metal butt of the gun collided with the metal of the container, and a loud clang sounded, echoing slightly.

_Shit!_

The voices abruptly disappeared.

Anne immediately reached for her gun.


	4. Chapter 4

GlaringEyes: Regarding your question from your review… Maaaaaaybe. ;3

And for any and all who are interested and hadn't heard yet, apparently Tom Waltz (Who wrote the "Sinner's Reward" and "Past Life" comics) is going to do a comic based on Anne's back-story, so we get to learn much more about her and, hopefully, get to know which ending was canon in Downpour! (*Bites nails* PleasepleasePLEASE don't kill off Anne, I don't need another favorite character dead, PLEASE).

[-]

Murphy had fallen asleep on the couch in the apartment he shared with Travis Grady when the phone rang.

Travis was out on a delivery route, and Murphy was alone until Saturday morning. He had been idly flipping through the TV channels before eventually giving up and landing on some New Hampshire Chronicle re-run, Fritz Wetherbee's voice gradually lulling him into a thin sleep.

He started awake, looked around sleepily as he tried to process what the noise was and where it was coming from, and then finally realized that it was the phone. Murphy scooted to the other end of the couch, the phone on the table next to it, and picked it up. "Grady residence." Travis usually responded with a dry 'Casa Del Grady' or some variation thereof.

"_Murphy?_"

Red flags went up immediately, and Murphy pushed a little further into awareness: Anne didn't usually call him 'Murphy' (out loud, anyway); she called him 'Pendleton', just as he typically called her 'Cunningham'. And her voice sounded uncharacteristically shaky to boot.

"Cunningham? You all right?"

A pause, and Murphy thought that he could hear her panting at the other end, along with a curious beeping sound. "_No._"

"What happened?"

Anne cleared her throat, but when she spoke the tremulous quality remained. "_I… Had a little accident._"

Murphy's eyes widened. "What kind of accident?"

"_Sewell shot me._"

For a moment, Murphy was silent. It was kind of like watching an atom-bomb go off while you were standing within range, but a fair distance from the blast: He saw it fall, saw the mushroom cloud go up, and was now waiting for the shockwaves to hit him, waiting to see if he was going to be very frightened, very concerned, or so goddamn angry that he pulled Travis's shotgun out of the closet and hunted George-motherfucking-Sewell down like a rabid dog and blew his damn head off-

The shockwave hit, and fortunately- for Sewell, anyway- it was overwhelmingly made of concern for Anne's wellbeing.

"Where? Where were you hit?"

"_Right-arm. It didn't go too deep, but it's still pretty painful. I lost some blood._"

"Where are you?"

"_A_ _hospital._"

"_Which_ hospital?"

There was a pause. Murphy gripped the edge of the table tightly. "_Alchemilla General._" Murphy frowned- he could swear that he had heard that name before.

"And that's where, exactly…?"

Anne cleared her throat again: "_Silent Hill._"

There was another long moment of silence before Murphy was able to articulate properly again. "I- What- Why are you in Silent Hill? Why are you in Silent Hill getting shot by Sewell?" He could hear the somewhat hysterical note that was starting in his voice, but didn't have a mind to do something about it at the moment.

"_I would be happy to explain if you would up here and help me leave. I can't drive, and for reasons that will become obvious once I explain, I don't want to stay here for too long._" Murphy had a license now; a fake license, that is. Laura Sunderland had hooked him up with it.

"I've got a friend who does some stuff. So long as James doesn't hear about it, it's all yours." The sixteen year-old had remarked after offering. "Deal or no deal, McMurphy?" Murphy had hesitantly accepted, regretful of not informing James of his daughter's mischief but also dearly wanting to _never_ get on Laura's bad side.

Travis had a car, one that Murphy was allowed to drive when needed. As Travis was currently absent, there wouldn't be an issue with borrowing it.

Murphy took a deep breath, counted to three, and forced himself to say, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"_Okay._" Murphy hung up.

_There are so many towns in Maine. So many towns in **America**, and somehow Anne managed to land herself in a hospital in the creepiest, most fucked-up one in possibly the world. _

His very strong sense of self-preservation was jumping up and down and screaming 'DON'T GO!', but his equally strong sense of loyalty was telling him that Anne was his friend now, and if Sewell was involved, backup was most definitely needed. While returning to Silent Hill was one of the last things he wanted to do, Murphy couldn't just leave her there.

Damn it.

This was an incredibly crappy way to find out he was right about Anne being up to something.

[-]

Fortunately, the roads to Silent Hill did not end in decimated pavement, nor were they infested with grotesque creatures looking to kill him. Murphy found his way to Alchemilla in record-time, about an hour and a half's drive.

Murphy had never really been fond of hospitals, but very public and crowded places had become an entirely new source of anxiety since getting out of (check: escaping) prison. There was always that nagging fear at the back of his mind that someone might recognize him and call the police, and there was no way in hell he was going back to prison. Not a chance.

The nurse at the desk didn't notice him until he cleared his throat. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, Anne Cunningham? She came in a few hours ago."

The nurse rotated her chair to face the computer, and after a few second of typing she stood up, leaned over the desk and pointed down the hall. "Down that way, fourth room on the right."

"Thank you."

Murphy counted off the rooms as he passed them. Most had sliding glass doors, but most were open in favor of a cloth curtain for privacy. When he reached the fourth room on the right, Murphy went to pull back the curtain- then stopped, and called first. "Cunningham?"

"It's fine, come in." Anne looked a lot livelier than she had sounded over the phone, and Murphy strongly suspected that some form of pain-medication had been involved in making that happen. She seemed to be in the process of getting redressed, already having replaced her shirt, pants and socks. Her right arm was in a sling with the sleeve rolled up past her shoulder, showing bandages wrapped tightly around the limb. She seemed to be taking great pains to not move it.

"What the hell happened?"

Anne looked up at him, and her eyes were sharp. "Nice to see you too."

Murphy was just irritable enough to manage some sarcasm. "I'm sorry, was that too blunt? Let me try again. Hi Cunningham! Great weather we're having. How the hell did you get _shot?_"

"_Shh!_" Anne hissed, waving her good arm urgently as her eyes burned into his. "Quiet!" She lowered her voice. "There's a mandatory reporting law in Maine: Hospitals have to report gunshot-wounds to the police. They don't know this is from a bullet."

"How could they _not_ know?"

"I managed to convince them it wasn't."

Murphy frowned. Any doctor worth their salt should know a gunshot wound when they saw one- at least, he thought so. _Convincing_ them that the bullet-shaped wound had not come from a bullet sounded like a lie beyond Anne's capabilities. "How?"

Anne shifted a little, and her eyes flicked to the curtain, and then back as she pulled her shoe on one-handed (she didn't ask for help, and so he figured it was better to keep his mouth shut). "It was a pretty deep graze," Murphy had to step closer, as she had lowered her voice to a whisper. "It didn't actually leave a bullet-hold in the middle of my arm, but the skin was split open. The doctor was suspicious, but I told him that I met the wrong end of some metal when I was walking."

It sounded like a good bit of bullshit to him. "And they really believed you?"

Anne's expression went dark, and she seemed to read his mind as she said, "All right, so it's not one of my better lies. I swore up and down that was what happened, and I'm thinking they don't have sufficient evidence to report it. But I'm not one hundred-percent certain, which is why I would like to leave quickly."

Anne finished with the boots, stood and grabbed her coat with one hand. As she adjusted it on her arm, Murphy could see that the shoulder of the right sleeve had been ripped open, the gray fabric around the hole saturated with blood.

Jesus _Christ_.

Murphy took a deep breath, and then nodded. "Fine. Okay."

It took an additional twenty minutes for Anne to completely get discharged, and the time seemed to turn her already nasty mood into a ragingly-bad one. Murphy began to reconsider his plan to ask her for the full story once in the car around the time when Anne had to request a new form because she had ripped the old one with the force she had been applying to the pen.

By the time they got out of the hospital, it was twelve-thirty. "Need help with the door?" Murphy asked, and Anne shook her head. "Where's your car?"

"On a side-street in Pleasant River." The redhead muttered as she yanked open the door and carefully sat down inside. Murphy was about to walk around and shut the door for her, but she simply reached across her lap with her left hand and awkwardly tugged it shut. He got inside as well, and thought for a moment.

"Leave the keys with me. Travis and I can come up on Saturday and drive it home for you."

Anne deflated a bit, and slid her good hand through her hair. "Thanks."

She shut her eyes, and Murphy decided not to prod for the details of the story. If there was any immediate threat to her safety Anne would have told him already, and he had no desire to bother her just when it seemed that her temper was starting to dwindle. Besides, she would have to tell him eventually- right?

There was relative silence for the next half an hour or so, until Murphy needed some help finding the right roads. He had been to Anne's house before, but not coming from Silent Hill. "Which road do I take once I get off the highway?" Anne was quiet, and he realized that she had nodded off. "Cunningham?" He reached over and gave her arm a tap, which caused her to jerk sharply.

"What? What?"

"Which road do I take once I get off the highway?"

Anne stifled a yawn behind her hand. "I'll let you know when we get there." She straightened up and shifted uncomfortably. "I'm surprised at you, Pendleton."

"How so?"

"You haven't started interrogating me yet."

Murphy's lip quirked upwards. "I know better."

"Good." He thought that the subject was being dropped there, but just as he was signaling to take the off-ramp to Windham, Anne sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Would you like the condensed version?"

"Shoot." Anne gave him a thin look, and Murphy forced his chuckle to turn into a cough. "Sorry, no, I- I'm sorry, I forgot. Bad choice of words."

"_Right._" The officer drawled. "Long story short, I transferred to Ryall State a little over a month ago. It's this road, turn right here."

The turn ended up being a little sharp, but it was better than missing it altogether. "The prison?"

"No, Pendleton, the college football team." The crabby edge to Anne's voice was returning, and Murphy decided not to interrupt her again. "I decided that after trying to kill you that trying to kill Sewell would be a waste of time and energy, and that I'd probably end up in prison myself. So I decided to look into those things dad reported him for, did some investigating, found out he was having a meeting with someone in Silent Hill tonight, and then this."

Murphy glanced at her briefly before turning his gaze back to the road. "I'm still a little unclear as to how 'Sewell meeting with someone in Silent Hill' turned into a bullet to the arm."

"I was eavesdropping, accidentally made a noise, and wouldn't you know he and at least one of the other bastards that were with him had guns." Anne waved her hand vaguely before pinching the bridge of her nose. "Left at the next intersection. You should recognize it from there on."

"I take it he didn't see you?"

"I don't think so, but I didn't exactly stick around long enough to check." She shifted in the seat, mouth tightening in pain.

"Painkillers wearing off?"

"A bit." As it so happened, they were just about to Anne's house. It was a woodsy area, with the nearest house barely visible some dozens of yards away in the trees. The windows were dark.

Though they had known each other for a while, there were certain questions that neither of them had been comfortable posing to one another. Anne had never asked him about Charlie or Carol, even though she had to know about them; she had openly admitted to learning plenty about him after he was convicted of killing Frank. And Murphy did not ask Anne if she was or had been married, even though the fact that her surname was no longer Coleridge indicated that she was. Murphy was left to deduce that if she had been married she was not anymore, because all signs indicated that she lived alone.

"Are you coming in?" Anne asked as she maneuvered the door open with all of the awkwardness she'd had in closing it.

"I don't know, am I?"

"Did you have more questions?"

"Yes."

"Then come in." She stepped out of the car, and Murphy didn't miss the way she wobbled when she stood. He climbed out too, but didn't shut the door.

"You up to answering them?"

"Might as well get it over with." That didn't actually answer the question as to whether or not she felt like answering them at the moment, but Murphy had found that arguing with Anne when he didn't have to only led to headaches.

Murphy followed her inside, eyes scanning the living room. It looked largely untouched, which wasn't too surprising: He knew Anne tended to work long hours, and given that she had apparently been supplementing that with some detective-work on the side, he couldn't imagine she had a lot of time to just relax.

"All right," Anne said, tossing her jacket onto the arm of a worn green couch on her way to the kitchen. "What else did you want to know?"

Murphy considered for a moment. "Didn't anyone think it was suspicious when you transferred to Ryall?"

Anne picked something up off the kitchen table and walked back. "No. Actually, I was suspecting a lot more suspicion than they gave me, given that I was under investigation." She looked him in the eye as she sat down on the couch. "For the most part, they seemed to be pretty… At ease with the idea that I may have killed you."

Murphy's mouth twisted into a grimace as he leaned back against the arm of an armchair across from her. "Yeah, they weren't too fond of me after the conviction."

"Cops stick together." Anne said simply.

"Don't I know it. How did Sewell react?"

Her fingers dug into the fabric of the couch, and she looked a little nauseous. "In a sick, sadistic, maniac, Sewell-ish way… I actually think he tried to flirt with me."

Murphy could stop the small convulsion of disgust that wracked his body at that image. "Carry pepper-spray."

"I do."

"Carry _two_ bottles of pepper-spray. I'm not kidding, Cunningham, I would not put it past that deranged son of a bitch to actually try something if you said no to him." Anne looked a little taken aback by that, but didn't question him. She did shift a bit, though, and winced suddenly. "How's your arm?"

"Painkillers are wearing off. It's not pleasant. Make your other questions quick."

"Who was he meeting with?"

Anne rolled her eyes to the ceiling pensively, carefully adjusting the sling with her free hand, her jaw tightening in pain when she did. "I don't know. One of them had an accent, so I'm reasonably certain he wasn't from around here. There were four of them, one of whom seemed to be from Silent Hill." Her lips curled upwards. "They shook Sewell."

Murphy's eyebrows rose. "Did they?" Oh hell, if there was anything he wanted to see before he died, it was George Sewell looking _scared_.

"They did. They mentioned someone- Officer G, they called him, and I'm assuming it's a police officer they've knocked off in the past or it wouldn't have bothered Sewell as much as it did." The smile slid off of Anne's face, and she reached up and rubbed her eyes. "Damn. I mean- _damn_. I knew I was getting into something reasonably ugly, but I didn't think I'd be putting myself in a position to get my brains blown out quite so quickly."

"You said Sewell didn't see you."

"I said I wasn't certain if he saw me, and that may not matter. I'm ninety-nine percent certain this is a drug operation, and you'd be surprised at the kinds of people that can be in on those things; Sewell's a prime example."

Murphy snorted and crossed his arms. "Sewell's slime."

"Yeah, but he's slime in an officer's uniform. Unless they know him like you or I do, people aren't going to suspect him of being in on something like this. If they've got a prison-guard with them, they could have police, hospital workers paid off or blackmailed to keep them informed or help them run it…" Anne stood up, and for the first time that night she seemed to be openly nervous about what she had gotten into. "Shit. I could be in trouble."

Murphy watched her for a moment. "You could talk to Douglas and Cheryl. They seem to have a lot of information on the seedier side of Silent Hill."

"I don't want anyone else involved. It's bad enough that he could figure out it was me at the yard, I don't need to drag anyone else into the line of fire."

Anne's reasoning was sound- and to be honest, Murphy would be inclined to do precisely the same thing in her situation. But he couldn't help but think that if he was in her shoes, Travis would quickly knock him upside the head and tell him to go for help while he still had a head and limbs to do it with.

What's more, Silent Hill had given Murphy the gift of foresight. He was a lot better at planning ahead now; and more importantly, he was a lot better at seeing the many different potential consequences of his- and others'- actions now. With what had happened that night, he did not, _could not_ see Anne's poking into this drug-thing on her own ending well. There was no way she was going to stop and just let Sewell off the hook, and he was going to be on high alert now that he knew someone was onto him.

"They're trustworthy, and Douglas has dealt with these kinds of people before. Besides, we don't even know for certain if Sewell knows-"

"Why are you saying 'we'?" Anne cut him off irritably, whipping around and glaring at him. "There is no 'we', Pendleton, and I don't want there to be. This is my problem to solve."

Something about that touched a nerve. "Given that he almost _killed you_ tonight, I would think that maybe you'd like some help trying to do something about him."

Anne's expression could have frozen fire. "I've been doing just fine on my own."

"Yeah, sure you were. By the way, how are those pain-killers treating you?" Murphy snapped.

Her cheeks went red. "This isn't your business, Pendleton. I'll take Sewell down in my own time."

"And quite possibly get yourself killed in the process." Neither of them seemed to notice that their voices were getting louder.

"I can't just _stop_. Since I can't put him away for what he did to my dad, I have to find some other reason to get him put away. Don't you get that?"

"I do, because in case you've forgotten, you aren't the only one who Sewell's screwed over."

"Yeah, he framed you for murder. For murdering my _father. __**My father**__, Murphy!_" Anne's voice cracked noticeably.

There was a long, considerably uncomfortable moment of silence. Anne abruptly turned away, and he assumed that she was either tearing up or getting close to it. Murphy pushed off of the arm of the chair.

He was reminded of that moment in Silent Hill when Anne had cracked, when she had almost broken down sobbing after she tried to shoot him and couldn't bring herself to. In most of Silent Hill, she was unflinching, cold, resolved in doing what she needed to do but never getting the chance to do it until the boat- but underneath, there was more turmoil than he had realized.

They got on well enough, but Murphy never professed to know what was going on in Anne's head. Hell, Travis had been better at guessing that she probably wasn't holding up well post-Silent Hill, and at the time he hadn't even _met_ Anne. For her, the healing process involved getting some form of justice for what had happened to her father, and Murphy was starting to wonder if she was going to be able to move on in the event that that didn't happen.

_Easy for you to talk about healing,_ A little voice in his head hissed._ You've already taken care of __**your**__ Bogeyman, however ashamed you are of destroying your life to do it. You know beating the ever-loving shit out of Napier and then letting Sewell kill him didn't solve anything, but you __**do **__feel better knowing he's not off killing more kids. Anne's Bogeyman is alive and well, and is still running around and probably screwing up peoples' lives as badly as he screwed up hers. So no, healing is probably out of the question until something's done about this prick._

Damn it.

"Look," He began quietly. "Frank was your dad. I'll never know him like you did, and I won't insult you by pretending that I did." He chewed his lip for a moment. "But he was my friend. He treated me like one of his own, and I couldn't have been more grateful for everything he did for me. It's not just being framed, Anne: What Sewell did to your dad is personal for me too. I want to see him pay for it. And I would rather not see him pay for it by getting pinned for murdering you. Let someone help, let _me_ help."

There was, on one hand, a strong sense of wanting to stay the hell out of trouble, because one wrong step and it was Wayside Maximum until they carted him out in a pine box. But on another, aside from genuinely wanting to be of some help to Anne so that _she _didn't end up dead, there was a savage desire to screw Sewell over as thoroughly as humanly possible. He _did_ want the son of a bitch to pay for what he had done to Frank, and he wanted the satisfaction of Sewell knowing that he had taken part in it.

Anne didn't speak for a moment, didn't face him. But then she slowly turned back around, and for the most part she looked pretty composed. The officer shook her head tiredly. "You have a death-wish, don't you Pendleton?"

Murphy gave a half-shrug. "Probably."

Finally, her expression softened. "You want to help? Fine. So long as you're okay with either potentially getting killed or ending up in prison again, fine. That's your neck to risk."

"What about Douglas and Cheryl?"

Anne bit her lower lip. "I'll ask them some questions before I start giving them information." She leaned over and picked up the object that she had pulled off of her kitchen table. "This is the only evidence I have of Sewell and Benson- another guard- planning anything. It's barely anything, just them talking about when they were supposed to go to the yard for the meeting and Sewell just generally being a dick." It was a small tape-recorder, with a cassette tape inside.

She handed it to Murphy, and he studied it for a moment. "Did the police get called after the shooting started?" He asked.

"Mm-hm. At least, I _think _that's why those cruisers were speeding off in that direction."

"Well, there's some proof: If there were shots fired there would be a report filled out somewhere along with the tape of the 9-1-1 call, right?"

Anne's eyes brightened. "And that means that I have Sewell admitting on tape to being at the yard around the time that happened." And then she smiled a genuine smile, which was a fairly rare event- especially when it was Murphy that had done something to provoke it. "Damn. Maybe it won't be so bad working with you after all, Pendleton."

"You probably would have drawn the same conclusion if you weren't hopped-up on painkillers."

Anne rolled her eyes. "Not so much anymore, actually. I'm taking another dose and going to bed." She fished the bottle of pills out of her jacket pocket, and then hesitated. "You can stay, if you want. It'll be, what- two-thirty by the time you get home?"

"Closer to three." He couldn't lie: The prospect of having to drive back home at this hour was not a pleasing one.

"There's a spare bedroom upstairs."

"I'm fine with the couch."

"You're certain?" When Murphy nodded, Anne gave one in return, and then the two stood somewhat awkwardly in silence for a moment. "Well. Okay. Good night, then."

"Good night."

Anne went upstairs, and soon enough there was total silence. Murphy walked over to the light-switch near the door and flipped it off before carefully making his way back to the couch. He sat down, crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. Sleep would probably come pretty easily. It had been a long day, after all: Several hours of work on a number of badly damaged cars, followed by about two hours of slowly getting himself into an entirely new batch of trouble that might end with his or Anne's death or imprisonment, or some fun new mixture of the two. Again.

_There is something seriously wrong with me._

[-]

…Wa-oooow, I didn't mean for this chapter to turn out so long, but okay. I don't normally write multi-chapter stories anymore, so chapter-by-chapter writing is an unusual experience for me. The next chapter will be the last, though- don't want to drag this out too long.

On that note, if you happen to notice any discrepancies in this chapter (as in, I say one thing and then contradict it three paragraphs later), let me know. I ended up re-writing the entire first half of the second section when I had most of the chapter done, as well as some key details in the first section; I _think_ I adjusted everything to match the changes, but if something's off, tell me.


	5. Chapter 5

And we're done! Sorry about the delay: I got sidetracked into The Dark Knight fandom and then had to bring my computer in for repairs.

I'd love to say that I have the next immediate installment in this ready, but I don't. I really, really want to do something with Douglas and Cheryl as the focus, but I don't feel comfortable writing exclusively from their perspectives until I actually get to play Silent Hill 3 (Everything I've done with them thus far has been based on information from the Silent Hill wikia and cutscenes on YouTube, but it's just not the same).

But this series WILL continue eventually, and I'm trying to hammer out a line of plot for the rest to follow.

[-]

Anne awoke to her arm positively _throbbing_.

Apparently, she had rolled in her sleep and accidentally put pressure on the wound. She grit her teeth and rolled to her other side, but the motion somehow managed to make the pain even worse. After a soft litany of assorted colorful words and phrases, Anne pushed herself up into a sitting position and swung her legs over the side of the bed. That triggered a pounding in her head almost as strong as a moderate hangover, and her good hand came up to press against her temple.

_Damn. _

It took a few seconds to fully recall the events of the previous day, and for some reason it was difficult to reconcile the fact that she had been at work as usual during the day and in the hospital with her shoulder spewing blood before midnight. As well as the fact that, if she recalled correctly, Murphy Pendleton was sleeping on her couch.

Anne glanced at the clock- 6:24.

Five hours of sleep: Fan_tastic_.

Odds were the only reason she had woken up as early as this was because of the pain. That medication hadn't done crap; Anne knew she might have to call back the doctor later and see if they had anything stronger. The wound had been stitched and then bandaged, and the sling was set to stay until the doctor was satisfied that the muscle and skin had healed appropriately. The wound was pulsing with pain that grew sharper with each movement and, to make it even worse, radiating heat.

As much as going back to sleep appealed to her, Anne knew that actually succeeding in doing so with the state her arm was in was slim. With a soft growl, she forced herself to stand up, resolving to go downstairs and put something cold on it (never mind taking another painkiller and the antibiotics she had been prescribed).

The trek to the kitchen was a slow one. The pain from her arm and headache were bad enough, but the fact that she hadn't been awake very long had her in a haze that made focusing difficult. Anne had never gripped the railing harder than she did that morning as she took the steps one careful stair at a time.

Murphy was sitting on the couch, slouched, arms crossed over his chest. He was snoring, and fairly loudly too. Anne's nose wrinkled. "Jesus, you sound like a lawnmower." She remarked, but he didn't even stir. Even in sleep he managed to look grim, troubled- not that he didn't have ample reason to do so. She made a note to kick him awake once she had done something about her arm.

After walking into the kitchen, Anne opened the freezer door and poked around until she found a sufficiently frozen bag of peas. After shutting the door, she sat down at the kitchen table, grimaced, braced herself, and then slowly pressed the bag to the shoulder of her arm.

It _hurt_. It _hurt_ like a motherfucker, but it was mixed in with a sort of cool relief that sent all kinds of confused signals to her brain, and Anne ended up dropping her forehead onto the table. That, of course, pulled the muscles in her neck and shoulder and ended up making it worse for a bit, but eventually it let up enough that she could relax- physically, anyway.

_I have to call into work,_ Anne thought as the pain began to dull. _Have to tell them I'm not coming in, have to make myself sound like I have a cold to do it, because no way in hell am I saying I got injured in any way lest it get back to the wrong person. I have to set up an appointment with my own doctor to keep up with the shoulder, will have to go with Murphy and Travis when they go to get my car so I can tell them where it is, God __**damn**__ I just want to go back to bed and not move._

Not an option. She had to give some kind of explanation for her absence, at the very least: Given the nature of their business, prisons tended to frown upon guards that didn't give some kind of warning that they wouldn't be at work on a given day. They liked to make sure they had ample numbers in case anything happened- not that that had done any favors for her father, Anne could not help but note.

_And hell, after all of this, I still have to figure out who in Ryall is on Sewell's side or not. I know Benson, possibly Handley, but there's no way he could be getting up to all the shit he gets up to without at least some passive support from someone else. _

It was amazing just how quickly she was capable of making new headaches for herself.

So engrossed was she in these thoughts that Anne didn't realize that Murphy had risen and walked into the kitchen until he was tapping her good shoulder. "How's the arm?"

"Somewhat tolerable." Anne grunted before forcing herself back into an upright position and carefully removing the bag of frozen vegetables from her arm. Once her hand was free, she used it to smooth back the many strands of hair that had come loose overnight. Murphy pulled out the chair to her left and sat down.

"So, what's the plan?"

"Call work, tell them I'm not coming in. Call the doctor, ask for stronger painkillers. If he cannot oblige, I'm giving you permission to shoot me in the head."

Murphy cocked an eyebrow at her. "That seems a bit extreme."

Anne heaved a sigh and adjusted her shirt. "I need something to manage the pain by Monday. I can't walk into work with a sling on or I'll get questions." She paused. "Do you remember any guards at Ryall that were buddy-buddy with Sewell?"

Murphy thought for a moment. "Not that I recall. Most people thought he was a dick, I think. And I thought the sling was to stop you from pulling the stitches."

"It is. But I'm willing to risk that if it means not drawing any more attention to myself than I have to. Sewell _will_ ask." Murphy didn't argue. "What about Handley?"

"I'm… Not sure about him. Or the warden. You would think that after all the things Frank reported, they would have found _something_ on Sewell."

"Handley doesn't seem to like him."

"I didn't like him much either, but I was still willing to do his dirty work. And compared to murder, Sewell probably isn't asking too much of Handley. Maybe he's just looking the other way."

"Maybe." That pounding in her head was coming back with a vengeance, and Anne figured that it might be better if she stopped thinking for the time being. Her distress must have translated to her face, because Murphy shifted a bit in his seat.

"If you're going to visit your doctor, I can stick around and give you a ride."

Anne stared at him for a moment. "You're being awfully nice to me for a man I once ruthlessly hunted down and tried to kill." She remarked dryly.

Murphy's lip twitched. "I thought we'd already gotten past that?"

"It's just a bizarre progression, is all I'm saying."

And she was very thankful for it indeed.

[-]

The day progressed at a snail's pace. Anne called in sick, praying that her absence alone would not be enough to peak Sewell's interest. Murphy drove her to her usual doctor and managed to get something just a bit stronger for the pain, and then he drove her back home.

"You need help with anything else?" He inquired as they pulled into the driveway.

_Cooking dinner, driving, cleaning, showering and dressing myself are going to be a bitch too, so if you'd like a thrill-_

Anne coughed and pretended to adjust the sling so Murphy wouldn't see the slight redness that had risen to her cheeks. "I should be fine. I can use my arm if I absolutely have to."

"Right. Did I already ask you if you're still planning to come to the meeting tomorrow?"

"No. But assuming these work-" Anne gave the new bottle of pills a little rattle, "-I should be fine to go."

"Travis'll be back in the morning. We'll drop by early, get your car, bring it back here and pick you up if you're up to going."

"Sounds good."

"I'll see you then." Anne nodded and climbed out of the car. Murphy didn't pull away from the house until she had successfully opened the door.

The rest of the day was one long, boring slump. The medication worked well-enough, and Anne was able to lie down without much discomfort. That was fortunate, as there wasn't really much else left for her to do: The less she did, the faster the wound would heal. The faster it healed, the sooner she would feel safe in removing the sling and using her arm without it, and she was counting on that for Monday when she went back to work. Maybe, just _maybe_ Anne could play the sick-card again, but she didn't want to: The sooner she could go back and pretend as though nothing of import had happened Thursday evening, the better.

For a few hours, she fell in and out of a deep but fragile sleep. A few dreams teased her with their presence, but one hit with the force of a hurricane: Anne was back in the shipping yard, and Sewell and Benson and the four strangers were there. Everything progressed as it had before, with Anne accidentally making that noise and the attention being drawn to her hiding spot. But this time, when the shooting started, a choked sound to her left drew Anne's attention. There on the ground, writhing convulsively with a bullet-hole in his head was a police officer.

Anne stared at him, focused on his features, and was very nearly shocked to full awareness when she saw her father's face staring back at her, eyes wide, panicked. He coughed, choked, shuddered, and then managed, "Anne- _Run!_"

The name-tag on his jacket read "**OFFICER G**".

Anne sprang up fast enough that, upon realizing that she was awake and all it had been was a bad dream, she ended up cursing and carefully checking her arm to make sure she hadn't ripped open her stitches. After a few seconds of careful poking and prodding and seeing no blood, she was satisfied it was fine. She had developed a cold sweat, and her body was trembling with leftover adrenaline.

"_Wouldn't want to go the way of old Officer G, would we?" _

"No, no we don't." Anne whispered, running her good hand over her face. "Shit." Not for the first time, the sheer gravity of what she had gotten herself into settled heavily onto her shoulders. One false move and she would become the next Officer G, or the next Frank Coleridge.

_Knockknockknock._

The sound was loud enough to make her jump, and still somewhat reeling from the dream, it took Anne a moment to realize that someone was knocking on her door- loudly, at that. But it was three o' clock and getting dark, so who exactly would be coming to visit now?

_Knockknockknock._

"I'm coming!" Anne slid off the bed and tried to get her bearings before leaving her room and trotting down the stairs. Maybe it was Murphy? As she passed through the living room, Anne shot a look at the couch and wondered if maybe Murphy had left something behind when he had stayed over. That theory flew out the window when she saw a large, dark truck parked in her driveway; Murphy and Travis drove a blue, 90's sedan.

_Knockknockknock._

The front door didn't have a window, so she couldn't see who was on the other side. Whoever it was, they must have really needed to talk to her (and not heard her call from upstairs), because most others would have given up by now. Anne grasped the knob with her left hand and twisted the door open. Standing on the other side-

…It was Sewell.

Anne's mind went to DEFCON 1 in a matter of seconds, and her first instinct was to find her jacket- her gun was in the pocket. But the door was open and if she chose to try and slam it shut and make a break for her gun now, if Sewell didn't already _know_, he would. Realistically, Anne could not move fast enough, could not get to her gun quickly enough, could not pull it out of the pocket before Sewell would be on her. Even if her arm was in perfect shape it would still be a stretch.

Time to play innocent.

Anne took a deep breath. "Sew- George. What brings you here?"

Sewell gave Anne a winning smile. He didn't look to be visibly injured, but he was wearing a jacket. The odds of the both of them merely getting grazed in that fire-fight were slim to none. "You didn't come into work today! Handley said you weren't feeling well, so I thought I'd come see how you were doing."

Anne felt her already thin smile weakening and forced it to widen a bit. "Oh yeah, just a- just a stomach thing, nothing to worry about."

Sewell nodded, leaning against the doorframe. "Yeah, yeah. What happened there?" He nodded to her arm.

_Lie, Anne, __**fucking lie like your life depends on it, because it **__**does**_.

"This?" Anne said mildly, twitching her arm and praying that her voice wasn't shaking. "God, don't ask, I'm still embarrassed." She motioned for him to follow her into the house and when she turned around, her eyes landed on her jacket. It was still slung over the arm of the couch where she had put it the night before.

"Come on, you can tell me. I promise it won't leave the two of us!"

Anne rolled her eyes and looked back over her shoulder. "I swear to God, S- George, if this gets back to the other guards I'm going to kick your ass."

Sewell's chuckle was almost pleasant. "My lips are sealed."

"I… Was so tired this morning when I got up, I ended up slipping on the stairs when I was coming down to call into work. Not one of my more coordinated moments."

"How'd you get to the doctor, then?"

The hole in her story made Anne's heart jump in panic, but she covered quickly. "I managed. This is just a precaution, to keep it still for a while." It then occurred to Anne to be very, very thankful that it was not Saturday, or that Murphy hadn't stuck around for the rest of the day. If Sewell had walked in with him here, the shit would have hit the fan spectacularly.

Sewell kept his hands in his pockets as he looked around her living room. There was something about him that was a little too casual, a little too calm, and Anne was getting pulled in two different directions: Play stupid until he gave her a reason to do otherwise, or grab her gun before he could get the jump on her. The sling, ironically, worked in her favor: Sewell would likely assume that she couldn't defend herself and maybe give her some kind of sign before making a move.

"Nice place you got here, Anne."

"Thanks. Did you want something to drink?"

"Nah, I'm fine. So, what part of your arm did you hurt?"

Anne swallowed quietly and said, "Shoulder. Banged it pretty hard on the railing."

"Well _that_ sucks." She did not miss his eyes jumping to her shoulder. There was a thin layer of bandages covering the stitches for an extra level of protection, and Anne hoped that he couldn't see the outline of them under her shirt-sleeve. Anne began to wonder how she could move closer to her jacket without looking suspicious, and if she should even try at this point. "How long do you have to wear that?"

Anne shrugged with her good shoulder. "Until the doctor's satisfied that it's better." She waited, watched his expression, but it didn't really change. "So, how have you been?"

"Been better, actually: Got into a bit of a tussle last night."

Forget racing or jumping- This time Anne was pretty certain her heart stopped. "Really?"

"Yeah. It was just some punk, probably though he could mug me. Pushed me into a dumpster, though. Damn near cracked my skull open on it." He turned, and it was then that Anne saw a lump behind his ear, disappearing into his hair. Maybe during the fight he had ducked or dodged or taken cover and slipped.

If only he really _had_ cracked his skull open.

Anne took a little step backwards, a knot in her stomach telling her that she should get as close to her gun as possible. "Wow. That looks painful."

"It is, actually." Sewell took a leisurely step forward, but it was a large step, and put him a little closer to Anne than she would have liked. "I managed to knock the little fucker away, and I was going to give him exactly what he deserved- or _she _deserved, I suppose it could have been a woman-" Another step closer, and Anne edged back. "-but I was too busy trying to make sure I hadn't split my head open to do much else. Next thing I knew, they were gone."

So _that_ was why Anne had managed to escape the yard without anyone really coming after her. After she had been injured, she had begun a hasty retreat back amongst the containers with the occasional parting shot here and there, but no one had chased after her. Sewell had been down, Benson was probably too scared, and the four other men had probably been eager to haul ass out before the police could come.

"Did you call the police?"

"Oh yeah. Not much they can do, though." He took another, final step forward, and Anne took another step back. Without warning, her leg bumped into the side of the coffee table and she stumbled. Sewell's hand shot out and grabbed her left wrist, pulling her up and forward and (_oh shit_) directly into his personal bubble. Her arm was almost folded against his chest, he was so close.

"Gotta be careful, Anne." Sewell murmured, his fingers tightening on her arm until the grip was uncomfortable. "Wouldn't want you to go and hurt yourself anymore than you already have, would we? That would be a shame. I like you." His tone was mild, innocent, but she could detect an undercurrent of a warning in his voice as he said it, and no, there was no mistaking it: He suspected. At the very least, Sewell suspected that Anne had been at the yard the night before.

Anne forced herself to lock eyes with him. "George? You're a little too close."

"Am I?" His smile had all the charm of a venomous snake, and the only reason Anne was still playing innocent was because her gun was still a few feet away and out of reach, and she didn't have any neighbors close enough to hear anything if things went bad. She hadn't lied to Murphy, she _could_ use her bad arm if she had to, but there was no way she could wiggle out of the sling without giving Sewell ample time to realize what was coming.

"Yeah. And you're hurting me." She gave her wrist a little twitch. Sewell looked down at it, expression blank, and Anne began to wonder if maybe he honestly hadn't realized that he was hurting her- that, or he was damn well aware of it and was just being his typical lacking-all-forms-of-empathy self again. After a few seconds he dropped her wrist, and it and her hand tingled unpleasantly.

"Sorry about that, sugar. Sometimes I forget my own strength." That smile was back. Anne didn't bother trying to return it, awkwardly massaging her wrist with her right hand, which was hindered by the sling. "Well! I should probably get going. I'm pulling an extra shift tomorrow morning."

Anne followed him to the door, and damn, dare she hope that he meant to leave without any trouble? It was better than what she had been expecting- and what she had been expecting was a nightstick to the head or a bullet to the chest. She pushed back the relief, tried to stay on guard, because as long as Sewell was inside her house Anne was not safe. But then, he also knew where she lived, which meant that most of her security was totally gone; and that actually raised the question of how he knew where she lived in the first place, because she had only told him that she lived in Windham not her address-

"I'll see you on Monday." Anne said, allowing a small breath of relief to escape when he stepped out of the door. She gripped the knob tightly, preparing to slam it shut as soon as she had the chance.

"Looking forward to it!" Listening to him talk, you'd never guess that he had looked to be moments away from attacking her a minute before. Anne shut her eyes and went to close the door. "Oh, and Anne?" She stopped mid-push and opened her eyes. Sewell had stopped at the bottom of the stairs and was looking back up at her. The smile was still present, but his eyes were cold. "Do try to be careful, hm? Really would hate to lose you to an accident."

Anne felt a shiver run down her spine, and her grip on the door tightened. "I'll be fine." Sewell gave a chuckle, a little wave, and then walked back to his large black truck, got inside, and drove away. Anne shut the door, locked and then bolted it shut before watched his taillights disappear in the evening darkness from the window. Once she was convinced Sewell was gone, she went to her jacket and pulled out her gun, tucking in into the waistband of her jeans. Odds were, she wouldn't be sleeping easily that night.

_There is something seriously, seriously wrong with that man._

_And now he probably knows that I'm onto him. _

That, or someone needed to teach him the proper way to flirt with a woman.

After a moment's contemplation and strong efforts to get her breathing under control, Anne went over to the phone and dialed Murphy and Travis's number. It rang once, twice, after the third time she wondered if maybe Murphy was still at work or asleep, until finally mid-fourth ring he picked up.

"_Hello?_"

"Murphy? It's Anne."

"_You all right?_" He had snapped right to sounding concerned, and Anne was grateful for that. It was nice to know that she had someone who was unquestionably in her corner.

"Fine. Do you have Douglas's number? I don't think I want to wait until tomorrow to talk to him."

-End

I didn't originally plan out the ending to this story, and so I just kind of let the story go on its own. I had no idea I'd be bringing Sewell back into this.


End file.
